“How sharp is it?”
The airline gate agent looked at me before looking down again to the scale.
“It’s ceremonial,” I replied.
Judging by his face, my oblique response was insufficient. I thought for a moment before furnishing an elaboration: “It’s part of my uniform,” I said, shaking the clear plastic garment bag holding my new white chokers.
The item I was trying to check in for my flight was a naval officer’s sword. Measuring about 35 inches, it was encased in an extra-long, plastic pelican case—the type created for more modern instruments of destruction like rifles. Despite my job description, I harbor a strong distaste for personally-owned weapons as such, so my brother had kindly stenciled “ART CASE” and “FRAGILE” down each side of the black container. Here I now stood with it in the “A” Terminal of Boston’s Logan Airport.
“Can the sword be sharpened?” asked the ticket agent, now examining the totality of my eastbound possessions.
Here, I had to think quickly. I didn’t need any hiccups in placing this costly uniform item into the cargo hold. Before 9/11, I had been able to carry the thing straight onto the plane—but those days were long gone. Further, while I had owned it for almost 20 years, never once had the sword been called into service.
“No,” I answered him after a moment, “it’s for decorative purposes. The only thing it can cut is a birthday cake.”
And with that response, the problem was solved. The agent slapped a tag around the handle and directed me to the oversized baggage area.
As I deposited my art case onto a baggage cart, my mind lingered on the cake comment. In memory, the only time I had used any officer’s sword was at a childhood birthday. My dad allowed me to use old his sword for cutting my cake, and it was a rare occasion to unsheathe it from its resting spot within a custom-made writing desk that my dad built. At a young age I didn’t have any awareness for what it really was—I just thought that a sword was an appropriate tool for slicing into cake while at a picnic table in the front yard.
Now it was several decades later. I was in possession of my own sword and somehow was preparing to call upon it in the employ of other than birthday operations. I was getting my seabag together.
And this particular airport departure served as a bookend to an August vacation back home on Cape Cod. The weather had been summery perfection as the possibilities of each day were endless in waking to set upon a number of land and sea activities. The flip side of all this goodness was that Cape Cod is a poorly-kept secret; many others migrate here and also squeeze the best parts of themselves from each passing day.
As for me, I fell into suit accordingly. I rose early before the beachgoers and routinely craved a run along the coast. I would park on Falmouth’s Main Street and do a quick 5K loop that would provide for a stretch down Surf Drive. The road not only lines the beach, but in traveling east to southwest, it also offers a panorama from Falmouth Heights to Nobska Point. You look to the water and it’s easy to spot the Steamship Authority ferries, white and obese with vacation-goers. Year-round they carve a familiar line between Woods Hole and Vineyard Haven. These are the familiar scenes that I love most.
Around mid-week at 6:45am, as usual I parked my brother’s car on Main Street, less than a mile from the beach. For some reason though I didn’t set off immediately. This was strange because this town has fingerprints so familiar that only the newest of additions normally catch my eye. But on this day, I wanted to have a look at older things.
In front of Falmouth Library there is a memorial walk lined with small American flags and headstones of sorts. At the end of the path, just before the sidewalk of Main Street, an ornate stone bench was erected long ago and it bears a plaque. It pays homage to veterans of foreign wars. I’m not sure when it was first installed, but in my mental card catalog it has just always been there. Before going for my run, I decided to give it a proper look.
Looking closer at the individual plaques marked by flags, I noted the names of locals who had given their life in the service of our nation in the past century. The surnames were both familiar and also unknown: Eusebio, Milanese, Almeida, Cardoza, Nickerson, Mello, McComiskey, Gallagher. They reflected the heritage of the people who have helped to shape this community. I took pictures so that I could remember them, and then made my way to continue with my morning routine.
As I was leaving, I spotted an older man who was watching me take photographs. I hadn’t realized that he was there.
“This is a World War I Memorial,” he said to me.
“Yes,” I answered in agreement, while skimming my eyes at the name of Sergeant Gallagher who was killed in Iraq.
“I’m from here,” he continued, feeling the need to assert something of legitimacy. I immediately took his self-identification as somewhat humorous, but also as a sort of affront. I found it funny because I probably would have said something similar while engaging with a summer stranger—but in saying as much, he had clearly pegged me as a tourist.
“Yeah,” I answered him again, “I’m from here too.”
But the guy wasn’t interested in my responses. Instead he carried on talking as though I hadn’t said a word.
“I served too,” he told me. “I was in the Army.”
Now as a middle child, I’m kind of used to be ignored—but now the grown-up part of me found myself suddenly clamoring for recognition. I spoke a bit more assertively in identifying myself.
“Yes,” I looked at him, “I’m in the military too.”
This is when he finally stopped and started to listen to me. He asked me what I did. I told him again that I was from Falmouth. FHS Class of 1995. And I’m back home on leave. In the end, we had a lovely exchange that ended with a handshake. It turned out to be a nice way to start the day, and with that I set off on my run.
What I love about being back in Falmouth is the return to a fabric and feeling that places my adult brain on pause. I find comfort in familiar things that are no longer usual. And what’s more is that with each return I carry new experiences that enable me to pick up on things that I had previously looked at—but had never really seen before.
For one: after living and working in West Africa for three years, I walked into a local upholstery shop on Main Street and saw a Cape Verdean sticker taped to the cash register. I had just spent months working and traveling around Cape Verde while working with their coast guard. I asked the girl where her family came from, and together we spoke about Fogo and Brava. I walk around the Christmas Tree Shop and recognize the Portuguese being spoken. I understand why it is one of the primary language prompts on the local ATMs. There’s the Irish community, the Italian spill over, and now many others. I’m from here too, and still find myself to be a bit baffled in possessing a naval officer’s sword of my own. But at the same time, I recognize and feel a connection with the war memorial in front of the town library.
I am happy to report that my sword, uniform and Cape Cod-soaked brain did make it onto the flight and wound up safely on the other side of the Atlantic. Summer is over and it’s back to work in some faraway place that offers a completely different language of customs and cultures. But it’s okay.
Each time I have to leave Cape Cod again, I will admit that as I grow older, I do find it increasingly difficult to let it go. I know that I’m from a special place, but I also know that there is the extra investment that is a product of this particular place being my starting point. While I am away, I build my appreciation for the support and environment that can always be relied upon when I return. Maybe it’s the sea. Maybe it’s the people. Maybe it’s just that I’m getting soft in my old age. I don’t know.
For now it’s just me back in London, with this art case and a bunch of uniforms that I’ve got to get ready for my next assignment. I am sure that the sword will soon get used, and I will do my best to represent myself and my Cape Cod roots as best as possible. There’s a certain pride that comes with becoming an adult and reflecting on where you started. As for me, I have big plans to one day carry the sword back home again, and to slice into some kind of hometown cake that will ensure that the tradition continues.